


Interlude in Chains

by Anonymous



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Chains, Flogging, Hand Jobs, M/M, Marking, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-27
Updated: 2021-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-29 00:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30147930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Iorveth can feel the anticipation like an enduring wave, crashing across his mind again and again. He knows better than to think Vernon Roche needs a weapon to cut someone to the bone, and surely there is no one he would like to cut quite as much as Iorveth right now. Iorveth, who is trampling all over Roche’s neat plans.
Relationships: Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16
Collections: Kink Lucky Dip





	Interlude in Chains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



Iorveth can feel the anticipation like an enduring wave, crashing across his mind again and again. He has to stay away for longer than he’d like until he is calm, focused enough to allow himself this—being in this room, this dilapidated cell where the cause of his agitation is chained up, trapped and defenseless. 

Not defenseless enough, Iorveth knows. That is why he doesn’t regret the time lost preparing himself for this. He knows better than to think Vernon Roche needs a weapon to cut someone to the bone, and surely there is no one he would like to cut quite as much as Iorveth right now. Iorveth, who is trampling all over Roche’s neat plans of getting arrested, spending a day in the dungeons and then getting rescued before anyone can figure out what to do with him and who has the authority to decide such a thing. It’s convenient that Iorveth doesn’t care one whit about any of that. 

Roche has been stripped down to his trousers, even his shirt and boots gone, but the lack of armor isn’t enough to make him appear helpless. The rage in his expression when he sees Iorveth enter the cell makes it clear he does not feel helpless either. 

“ _You_ ,” he says through his teeth. His fists clench where they’re held in shackles above him by the heavy chains bolted into the ceiling. 

Iorveth smiles meanly. He has to force down his excitement at the chance to turn that rage into fear. Perhaps fear is too ambitious. He doesn’t have nearly enough time for the kind of effort that would take. 

“Were you expecting someone else?” Iorveth asks idly, as if he doesn’t know. “Someone in particular?” He walks around the room, to the rack of _tools_. Crude and ugly, how fitting for d’hoines. They will suffice. 

“A rescue?” Iorveth continues when Roche stays silent. He can’t help but smile wider when Roche shows the faintest signs of surprise. Or is it agitation? The rescue he waits for is only delayed, but Iorveth will happily let him think the worst. 

“You look nowhere near bruised and beaten enough for a dramatic rescue,” Iorveth says, and closes his fingers around the handle of a whip. “Let me help you with that.” 

He swings. 

The whip hits Roche’s back with a crack and Roche’s whole body jerks. The chains rattle, but he doesn’t make a sound, not yet. Iorveth didn’t expect it to be that easy. He adjusts his grip and swings again, hits Roche again and again until there’s a row of red lines on his back. Until Roche can no longer silence the muffled sounds he makes at every lash. 

By the time Iorveth stops, the sounds have changed into whimpers. 

A few moments pass, the silence broken by Roche’s forceful breaths, and oh, they so conveniently hide how fast Iorveth’s own breathing has become watching Roche tense and jerk at every hit. Seeing the marks left on his skin by Iorveth’s hand. He is enjoying this even more than he expected. 

“Tired already?” Roche grits out, but the taunt is weakened by how hoarse he sounds, how his voice almost breaks. As if the half muffled whimpers were screams instead. 

“Hmm, I didn’t know you were so desperate for a punishment,” Iorveth drawls. He steps closer to admire the welts all across Roche’s back. Then, on a whim he presses his palm against Roche’s bare skin. Roche tries to jerk away from the contact, curses and pulls fruitlessly on the chains keeping his arms extended above his head. 

It should feel disgusting, lowering himself to touch a d’hoine, and yet Iorveth feels another surge of excitement at seeing his own fingers digging into the reddened skin. The heat against his palm is almost scorching. 

And best of all, Roche reacts to this far more strongly than to the flogging itself. He seems almost desperate to get away from Iorveth’s touch, so Iorveth doesn’t let him – he presses his other hand against skin as well, and then runs both of them up and down Roche’s back, scratching the already raised skin ruthlessly. 

“You seem very tense, Commander. Is it perhaps that something troubles you?” Iorveth asks with concern so false and exaggerated it sounds almost obscene. 

He takes his hands away and instead presses his chest against Roche’s back. The straps and buckles of his armor must be digging into the welts painfully, and Iorveth takes a moment to enjoy imagining exactly how much. 

After another pointless attempt to get away Roche barks out a laugh. 

“I’m not the one putting my hands all over you, elf. Is that why you came here? You wanted a chance to fuck me? Is that what you’ve been dreaming about, hiding in the woods with your squirrels?” He spits the words out laced with derision and mockery, but his voice. Iorveth hears the way his voice catches and his breaths stumble in the wrong places. It’s almost better than fear. 

“Really, Roche, not everyone spends their time as frivolously as you,” Iorveth says with mocking kindness, “but if that’s what you wanted, all you had to do was ask.” He hadn’t come here with this in mind, or so he tells himself, but now that the idea has been put into his head, it seems perfect for the occasion. 

It’s easy circling his hands around Roche and reaching for his pants. Almost with glee Iorveth finds that Roche’s cock is hard. He presses down with more force than any man would find pleasurable and delights in the renewed sound of broken swearing. After a moment’s consideration he unties Roche’s pants and frees his cock. Roche tries to curl in on himself and away from Iorveth’s hands, but all he accomplishes is pressing his welted back harder against Iorveth’s armor. He whimpers and jerks in the chains, torn between trying to protect his back or his cock. 

It doesn’t at all change how hard he is. 

“Is it the pain, Roche? Are you the kind of man that needs to be beaten to find pleasure?” 

If Iorveth had to guess, that is not it, not completely. But he knows the condescension, the idle curiosity with which he asks will be humiliating on its own. 

He wraps his hand around Roche’s cock, grip just tight enough to be a threat. “Or is it me? Have you been desperate to lose against me again?” Without waiting for an answer that isn’t likely to come, Iorveth starts to stroke, hard and fast. At the same time he digs the fingers of his other hand into Roche’s shoulder, where the highest of the red welts mar his skin. 

Roche shouts and arches in Iorveth’s hold, torn between thrusting into his grip and shying away from it. 

He shouts again, barely a minute later when he comes, and his body jerks the same way as it did when being whipped. 

Iorveth wipes his hand on Roche’s trousers and steps back. His own cock is uncomfortably hard underneath his clothes, but he is determined to keep the upper hand, to pretend he is above Roche’s base desires. 

He walks back to the door of the cell and watches Roche for a minute, and makes sure his amusement is visible. It takes a while for Roche to gather his wits and get his breath back. He tries to glare at Iorveth, but it looks unconvincing on a man with his pants open and his cock out. 

Iorveth only laughs and leaves the cell, leaving him to be found by his rescuers in such an undignified state. 

He finds the closest empty room to bring himself to finish thinking of that faltering glare. He doesn’t know if Roche truly finds some perverse pleasure in losing, but Iorveth certainly loves how winning feels. He comes thinking of the welts and bruises all over Roche’s back, about how long Roche will remember and curse Iorveth every time he moves and feels his skin burn with reminders of him. 

And after those reminders are gone, maybe Iorveth will find him and give him more things to remember him by. 


End file.
